


When the Sun Meets the Moon

by enoughtotemptme



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Body Paint, F/M, Fluff, Grounder Culture, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughtotemptme/pseuds/enoughtotemptme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t the first time since the rescue from Mount Weather that they’ve been invited to a grounder festival, but it’s the first time they’ve been asked to participate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Sun Meets the Moon

It isn’t the first time since the rescue from Mount Weather that they’ve been invited to a grounder festival, but it’s the first time they’ve been asked to participate. 

The peace between Sky People and grounders has been solid since the invasion of Mount Weather––it turns out that it’s pretty hard to keep hating each other when you’ve helped each other limp through the forest. So, it’s not that relations are strained or overly uncomfortable. And it isn’t even that the grounder festivals aren’t fun; they _are,_ lots of singing and dancing and Monty’s moonshine makes sure of that, and even Clarke and Bellamy have been dragged into the dancing crowds a time or two.

It’s just that it’s different when they’re told they’re going to be the main event––that _Clarke_ and _Bellamy_ are going to be the main event.

“It’s a huge honor to be chosen for the festival,” Octavia tells them. “Lincoln says only the highest ranked pair of a clan are allowed to perform the dance.”

Lincoln, by Octavia’s side as always, nods as Clarke sets her mouth. “It is tradition that the Commander and her chosen lead the ritual. She is starting a new tradition by offering it to you.” 

 _So don’t fuck it up_ is implied. 

“Is that the wisest thing?” Clarke asks. “I mean, we get along okay now, but if this––this _ritual_ is such a big deal, should she really offer up her part to us?”

Octavia’s smiling in a way that makes Clarke uneasy and Lincoln’s already shaking his head. 

“She’s offering it up to _you,_ Clarke,” he says, and she opens her mouth to question him, but he’s still talking, “You and your chosen one. Bellamy… well, they just assumed it would be him.” 

“Oh,” says Clarke. “Um. Right.” 

It feels vaguely like she should maybe be offended by what the _Trikru_ are implying, but, well. 

It’s not as if they’re _wrong._

There’s no else she would choose. No one else she _could_ choose, really, because if she chose anyone else Bellamy would sulk. He would say he wasn’t sulking, but he would stomp around camp muttering about _partnership_ and _grounder territory_ and _still dangerous_ and _goddamnit, Princess_. 

But, still. No one else she _would_ choose. 

* * *

 

“They want us to _what_?” Bellamy asks when Clarke finally tracks him down later that day. He’s just outside of camp, helping Miller and an Arker named Violet skin the animals they’d bagged on the latest hunting expedition. They had been in the middle of butchering a deer when Clarke had arrived, and now Clarke wonders if there’s something wrong with her that the sight of Bellamy Blake, dirty, bloody, and glistening with sweat, does something to her deep in her belly. 

“Uh,” says Clarke. “Dance. They want us to dance.” 

Bellamy gives her a dirty look; she pushes away the flustering feeling and raises a brow in his direction. 

“Is there a problem?” she taunts, letting a smirk take over her lips. “You got two left feet or something?” 

He glowers at her, but there’s no anger in his eyes.

“Why the fuck do they want us to dance?” he asks instead, and with a sigh she tells him.

According to Lincoln, because eclipses are rare, they are always greeted with celebration by grounders (Clarke’s discovered that grounders like to greet just about everything with a party). That the upcoming solar eclipse will take place during the warmest days of summer is just another bonus, and another reason to celebrate. 

“Apparently there’s a ritual dance performed during the eclipse itself. And because it’s such a rare celebration, being asked to perform it is an honor. Or something.”

“Can we say thanks, but no thanks?” Bellamy asked distractedly while gesturing Miller and Violet to head into camp with the finished meat.  

“No,” Clarke says flatly. “Unless you want to offend Lexa and the entire Woods Clan and start a war all over again.” (She’d already asked the same question and been shot down. Lincoln had looked a little frustrated when she asked; Octavia had furrowed her brow and looked at Clarke in disappointment.)

“Fuck,” Bellamy groans, scrubbing at his face wearily. Clarke watches the grime from his hand leave darker streaks across his skin and tries to distract herself from the renewed clenching in her belly.

“Wow,” she says archly, “Who would have thought Bellamy Blake would be afraid of a little _dancing––_ ”

“That’s _not_ what I––” he bites off his words and scowls at her. “Shut up, Princess.” 

She grins at him. 

He sighs. “You and me?” he asks. 

Clarke nods; doesn’t tell him that it’s technically _her_ and _her chosen._ She doesn’t see how that’s relevant information, she tells herself.

“It’s a partner dance,” she says. Without speaking, they both begin heading back to the camp gates, their steps quickly falling into sync. 

“As if we didn’t have enough to do before the weather starts turning,” he grumbles, and Clarke knows that’s his way of saying he’s in.  

* * *

The next time they meet with Lexa, they lie through their teeth about how honored they are by her generous offer, and about how they can’t _wait_ to dance in front of the entire _Trikru_ and _Skaikru_. 

Lexa looks at them, takes in their bared teeth with the slightest raising of her brow, and nods graciously. 

“Your participation will be another symbol of our peace accords,” she says, “for both our peoples and for the Alliance.” 

“Uh,” says Clarke.

“What?” says Bellamy. He sounds as alarmed as she feels.

Lexa’s expression never wavers, but Clarke feels as though they’re being laughed at.

“Representatives from the eleven other clans of the Alliance will be our guests during the eclipse,” she explains. “They will be very interested in the Sky Clan’s involvement in one of our most revered rituals.” 

Clarke blanches and she hears Bellamy whisper, very quietly, “ _Shit._ ”

Apparently done with them, Lexa raises her hand and two grounders step out of the trees.

“Kormak and Wenda. They will teach you our ritual. I am sure you will make them comfortable when they arrive at your camp later today.”

Clarke and Bellamy nod at them. The two Grounders look somewhat irritated, but, Clarke comforts herself, not homicidally so, just the normal amount that she imagines comes with being ordered to spend days giving _Skaikru_ dancing lessons. 

“Learn well,” Lexa says before she retreats into the woods. Clarke wonders if she _intended_ it to sound like a threat.

* * *

She meets briefly with her mother after they speak to Lexa. Bellamy’s gone to speak to Jasper and Monty about more moonshine for the eclipse festival, leaving her to speak to Abby alone––really, it’s all for the best. Delinquency aside, Abby has an odd distrust for Bellamy that Clarke just can’t pinpoint. 

Her mother takes the news––big party, very important, Clarke and Bellamy are the somewhat-unwilling stars of the spectacle––in silence, looking pensively at her daughter. 

“You and Bellamy were asked to perform this ritual?” she asks eventually.

Clarke nods. “Yes. Well, pretty much.” 

Her mom raises an eyebrow. 

“Pretty much?”

Clarke grimaces. 

“Well, technically, they asked me.”

Abby motions for her to continue with her explanation.

“And, technically, I get to choose my partner.”

Abby _hmm_ ed in response, watching Clarke with that same pensive stare. 

“What?” she asks defensively when she feels the staring has gone on too long. 

“Nothing,” Abby says after another brief moment. “Thanks for letting me know. Is there anything Marcus or I can organize to help prepare for the festival? If the whole Alliance is there… seems like it’s pretty important.”

Clarke shakes her head. 

“No,” she replies. “We’ve got it handled.”

Clarke bids her mother farewell before heading out of the medbay. Before she’s made it all the way out the doors, she hears her mother sigh something that sounds like the word, “ _We._ ”

* * *

“Clarke,” she hears. She looks up from grinding seaweed to see Raven staring just past Clarke with a peculiar expression on her face.

“What’s up?” Clarke asks, concerned. “You okay?” Raven’s eyes shift to meet Clarke’s. They aren’t as close as they once were, but things are getting better between them as the seasons cycle through. 

“There’s a grounder breathing down your neck,” Raven says slowly. Clarke glances over her shoulder; it’s true. The ritual teacher, Wenda, is a scant eighteen inches behind her––she had been there for the last half an hour while Clarke worked. When she’d first noticed Wenda, she’d tried to be hospitable, offering food and drink, but Wenda had ignored her. Now she looks at Clarke’s face without betraying any expression.

Clarke forces herself to turn back to Raven.

“Yeah,” she says. “She’s one of the grounders meant to teach me and Bellamy the ritual for the festival. Wenda, this is Raven.” She glances back at Wenda again, who doesn’t react to the introduction.

“Oooh-kay,” Raven replies. “As long as you’re aware.” Clarke nods and Raven departs for engineering. 

* * *

It takes Clarke two and half hours to crack. She whirls around and points a finger at Wenda.

“ _Why_ are you shadowing me?” she demands. Wenda looks unimpressed.

“Learning your steps,” she says shortly and curls her lip at Clarke.

“Um,” Clarke says hesitantly. “Isn’t… isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing?” 

If anything, Wenda curls her lip even more.

“No,” she states. “You and your chosen may not dance together until the ritual itself. I must learn your rhythms so what I teach your chosen will not result in failure when you two dance together.”

Clarke is quiet for a moment. Then she asks, “Is Kormak, er, learning Bellamy’s rhythms right now, too?”

Wenda nods. “Tomorrow, we begin your instruction. Today is for our learning.”

Clarke smiles suddenly and turns away. “Carry on, then,” she calls over her shoulder and resumes her rounds.

A half hour later, she hears a familiar  aggravated shout echo through camp and confuses Mel completely when she grins in the middle of stitching up her sliced arm. 

* * *

The next day, Kormak and Wenda switch places and begin to teach them the ritual. They have three days to learn; the fourth day is the predicted eclipse. Clarke knows from Wenda that she and Bellamy can’t dance together until the eclipse, but she didn’t realize at the time that they can’t even _see_ each other dancing until then. 

A bewildered Wick is forced to give up his sound system for their practices; Wenda and Kormak are halfway across camp with the device when Clarke realizes what they’ve done. Clarke apologizes hurriedly to Wick and then blanches when she hears a late twentieth century song rife with profanity and a heavy beat blare to life.  

“I’ve got to go,” she says, and rushes away. 

She finds Bellamy standing to the right of the large tent where the gatherers sort their haul when the weather is good. He’s standing with his arms crossed, a grumpy expression on his face. Wenda is standing next to him looking impassive; Kormak is fiddling with the volume dial with a poorly disguised look of glee. 

“Hey,” Bellamy says, arms relaxing a little bit.

“Hey,” Clarke responds. She takes in his face. “Everything okay?”

He frowns. “ _She––_ ” (he glares at Wenda) “––says we’re not _allowed_ to learn together.” 

Clarke nods as she reaches his side. “I know,” she says. “I think that’s why they picked this spot. We can share the, uh, _music_ but we won’t see each other if we’re on opposite sides of the tent.”

Bellamy sighs gustily and peers at her from under his lashes.

“I don’t have time for this,” he says in an aggravated tone.

Clarke laughs at him. “And I do?”

“People need to eat all the time,” he gripes. “I should be hunting, or _something._ People are only dying _some_ of the time.”

“There, there,” she teases, and on impulse pops up onto her tiptoes so she can reach his forehead with her lips. They touch his skin only briefly, but she can taste the salt of his sweat and sweet of his own scent. “Everything’ll be alright,” she adds with a wry smile; the smile falters when she sees the intense look on Bellamy’s face. He looks at her in a strange, considering sort of way, and she insists to herself that she doesn’t know what prompted such scrutiny.

“ _Heda_ Clarke,” she hears someone say firmly, and figures it must be Kormak, though she’s not yet heard him speak.

“Yes,” she replies faintly, eyes still locked on Bellamy’s. Bellamy glances behind her and then back, and his eyes crinkle at her obvious preoccupation. 

“Better get cracking, princess,” he says softly, and before Clarke can respond he drops a quick kiss across her own brow. She can only blink, a little stunned, as he gestures at Wenda and they retreat to the other side of the tent, out of sight.

* * *

Clarke is exhausted. She’s spent the last three days learning this damn grounder fancy-dance (a little voice notes her complaining voice sounds a little too similar to someone else she knows) and she can barely function now, she’s so tired.

She and Bellamy have done the work, put in the hours upon _hours_ of dancing.

(“Um, Kormak, why are we dancing to this particular song?” 

At that moment, the singer demands that she not “fuck with his love.” 

“It is constructed around the same rhythm as the music our musicians will play for you,” Kormak responds, but his tone is oddly formal and she’s not sure that’s the _total_ truth of why he chose this song––anyway.)

They’ve both practiced with their teacher-partners until they could have done the dance in their sleep––Clarke is convinced that she has, actually; she’s pretty sure she fell asleep in the middle of the twenty-eighth time through, and when she came to Kormak didn’t yell at her any more than he normally did. 

Bellamy looks as sleep-deprived as she feels. It wasn’t as if they were freed from their normal responsibilities with the hunters and the med bay and the forty-seven who sometimes needed to be reminded they were free, and safe, and home with Bellamy and Clarke, and the rest of the Arkers who still didn’t quite have their shit together one hundred percent of the time. They still did _all_ of that, _plus_ their dancing lessons with the grounders.

Clarke swears she’s swaying as she stands in front of Wenda and Kormak the night before the festival day. Bellamy isn’t doing much better than her, his eyes bleary as he tries to focus on the grounders. She leans into his side a little bit and feels his stance shift to hold her weight better. 

“You have trained for three days,” she hears Wenda saying, and Kormak nods. 

“You have proven yourselves to be a proficient pair,” he states. “And if you do not know the ritual sufficiently by now, it is through no fault of ours.”

“Great,” Bellamy says, “thanks a lot.” She can feel the tension that gathered in his body at the grounder’s careless words and frowns at Kormak. Before she can retort (and possibly offend the entire _Trikru_ all over again in her inhibitions-impaired, sleep-deprived state), she sees Wenda elbow Kormak sharply in the ribs. She must use quite a bit of force, because Kormak’s _oof_ is not at all quiet.

This lets some of the tension fade from Bellamy’s muscle, and lets Clarke thanks their teachers and bid them a mostly polite farewell. The two grounders quickly fade into the trees and Clarke shifts to look at Bellamy face on. 

“What now?” he asks. His voice is low, lethargic. 

“Sleep,” Clarke announces, and sways forward a little until her head is resting against his chest.

“I’m not sure that’s where––” Bellamy tries.

“Shh,” Clarke mumbles. 

“Clarke, you have a perfectly good bedroll––”

“ _Shhhh,_ ” she whispers as fiercely as she can manage. She’s just so tired, and it feels so _good_ to stand still _, finally._

Bellamy sighs, and a moment later she feels the pressure of his chin resting on top of her head, his own bowed over hers. Clarke’s arms snake slowly around his middle until she has a firm grip and leans even more bonelessly against him; his own hands eventually find a hold just above her hips.

She swears they’ve actually managed to sleep like that for a few minutes, standing up and embracing in delirious exhaustion, when they’re found. 

“I didn’t see anything!” are the first words she hears. She drags her eyes open to glare at the culprit and a jaw-cracking yawn slips out of her mouth, but she doesn’t lift her head from its position. She notes sleepily that Bellamy barely twitches either, his fingers flexing once on her hips before stilling.

“What do you want, Jasper?” she sighs. 

“Nothing, nothing,” he squeaks, and adjusts the new(ish) goggles Wick had produced for him when they all returned from Mount Weather. “Sorry to interrupt, please carry on!”

“Jasper––” Clarke frowns and reluctantly moves away from Bellamy, rubbing her eyes. But Jasper disappears before she can ask him again what he needed.  

Bellamy’s hand briefly touches her elbow. “Better head to bed, princess,” he says. “Big day tomorrow.” He ends the statement with a painfully big yawn of his own and she nods.

“Sleep well,” she says with a little smile. He waits a moment more and then gives her a slow, sweet, sleepy smile of his own.

“You too, Clarke,” he replies. “Sweet dreams.”

She turns and heads to her little tent, which is right next to Bellamy’s a blissfully short distance away. 

“Don’t let the radioactive bedbugs bite,” she whispers to him once they both finish rustling their way into their blankets. Through the thin layers of their summer tents she hears the quiet rumble of his laughter, and the sound soothes her to sleep. 

* * *

Late the next morning she has only a moment to register the warmth at her back before Octavia is in her tent, urging her awake and up. Though they have their separate sleeping quarters, Clarke and Bellamy’s tents share a flimsy wall of synthetic fabric; sometime in the night, they both moved in their sleep until they were pressed back to back through the fabric.

Clarke doesn’t have time to feel silly about this, or anything else about it as she’s led to the lake to bathe. Still tired, she lets Octavia boss her around until she’s clean. Once she’s finished, she follows the younger girl docilely out of camp toward the large clearing where preparations for the festival are already beginning. Just as she’s pushed into a small but airy tent (much larger than the tiny partitions the Sky People make do with), she glances over her shoulder and sees a damp Bellamy being prodded none-too-gently into the tent across from hers. 

He catches his eye and sends her an aggrieved look; she surprises them both by sticking her tongue out at him impishly, and a smile blooms on his face just as the tent flap swings closed.

* * *

It takes hours––literally, _hours––_ but she escapes her tent in mid-afternoon, as prepared as she’ll ever be for the eclipse ritual.

She is dressed in a tunic that shows more skin than she thinks she ever has. It's not like it was ever _not_ cold in space, so even as the ground heats and she experiences summer for the first time, she has yet to shed more than a single one of her usual extra layers.

Until now. The clothing is made of some kind of soft hide. It ties around her neck, leaving her arms and back bare, the hem skimming the tops of her knees. The color is a soft, glowing gold. 

Her hair is twisted back in elaborate braids––and she’s not kidding, compared to the average net of braids sported by grounders, hers is even more intricate. She thinks there might be more than a hundred tiny, differently textured braids woven together, containing her curls in the golden coronet.

The sun is high in the sky already, and she feels like every part of her must be gleaming, from the downy golden hairs on her legs to the glistening paint adorning her bared skin––a color she’d never seen before on the grounders, a rare color Lexa had told her was used only for weddings and for the eclipse festival. 

Lexa had been the one to prepare her for the ritual––another honor, she had explained stoically as she painted and braided Clarke into a grounder. Relatively speaking (it does still take her _hours_ , after all), Lexa is efficient and finishes with Clarke an hour before the ritual––and the eclipse––is due to begin, so Clarke’s now standing near the other tent––the tent where Bellamy grudgingly allowed himself to be led for Lincoln to prepare him for the ritual. 

She is holding her palms out in front of her, marvelling at the shimmering spirals glimmering on her palms, when she hears his tent flap rustle.

“Nobody ever said anything about grounder paint,” she hears Bellamy grumble, and as she turns to face him he’s saying, “If I’d’ve known I’d––”

He stops mid-sentence when she meets his eyes. She bites the inside of her cheek; he looks like he’s swallowed his tongue. She waits for him to resume his sentence, but he remains silent, his eyes running over her and warming her more than the sun.

“Looks good on you, though,” she says to break the silence. “The paint, I mean.”

It’s true. The paint on Bellamy’s skin is the more common war paint used by the grounders, but a fresh and thick application makes it blacker than ever. The symbols on his skin are meant to mimic the moon just as hers are meant to capture the sun. A sickle moon curves along his face from his temple to the corner of his mouth. He is wearing more clothes than she is––gleaming dark leather grounder clothes, trousers and a vest. His arms are left bare though, and more paint outlines the stages of the moon from his shoulders to the backs of his hands, the waning on his right, the waxing on his left. Incongruously, his feet are clad in his same old beat-up boots, though they’re polished as best as he could get them. (She’s jealous that he gets shoes at all.)

To her dismay, Clarke discovers that this clean, adorned-in-ceremonial-paint Bellamy has the same tingling effect on her body as his normal messy self.

She swallows and feels gratified to notice him doing the same.

“Yeah––” his voice cracks a bit, and she hides a smile as he clears his throat. “Yeah, you’re not so bad yourself, princess.” 

“Clarke! Bellamy!” They both turn to see Octavia jogging toward them. She’s beautiful, Clarke thinks, dressed in a grounder dress that Lincoln must have gifted her for the festival. It’s a bit more modest than hers, Clarke notices with a hint of jealousy, higher back and longer hem. It seems unfair, because Clarke would be more comfortable in something like that and Octavia would be even more lovely in something like this, but she sucks it up. Life’s not fair.

“Wow, you guys look great,” she says once she’s reached the two of them. She reaches out a hand as if to touch the spirals and suns all over Clarke’s skin, but stops just before contact. Clarke thinks she sees longing in Octavia’s eyes, though it’s gone in a second––and she remembers that Octavia knows more about grounder traditions than anyone else at this point, thanks to Lincoln.

She gives Octavia a soft smile and a stroke to the arm with her fingertips––some of the only parts of her body free of paint––as Bellamy watches first in confusion and then with suspicion.

Octavia sends them a grin in response. 

“It’s time,” she says. 

Bellamy and Clarke look at each other and speak in unison.

“Shit.”

Octavia laughs at them. Clarke sees the way Bellamy’s eyes soften and knows they’re thinking the same thing: that they’d never thought they’d make it to a time like this, a time when laughter and joy are as common as the day and the night.

* * *

As they make their way to where they will perform the ritual, Clarke is listing off all of the rules they have to follow (or else cause an intertribal incident when they completely mess up the dance). 

“Nervous, princess?” Bellamy interrupts once. She can hear the laughter in his voice but she does not, _does not_ pout. (That’s just the way her mouth is shaped, okay?)

“No,” she says primly, and continues with her list. They’re almost there. “Remember, just keep your eyes on me. The whole time, just keep your eyes on me.” 

They’re on the edge of the clearing now. 

“Clarke?” Bellamy asks.

“Yeah?” she responds.

“Shut up and dance with me.”

She feels herself flush, but nods imperiously. “Fine,” she says. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

When she had practiced it with Kormak, the dance had reminded Clarke of an old movie she saw once on the Ark, back before––before everything. It was based on an even older novel about a man and woman who made terrible first impressions on one another but ended up being perfect for each other––you know, in the end. It was the ballroom scene the ritual reminded her of, the one where they still disliked each other a little bit but had to dance together anyway. There are a lot of things different about the ritual she and Bellamy will perform––there won’t be other dancers like there were in the movie, and by the end of the dance they will touch, unlike the film––but it reminds Clarke all the same. The measured steps, the smooth revolutions around one another. Dancing it with Kormak, at least, had been interesting. 

Kormak hadn’t actually been that bad, Clarke thinks. True, he was kind of mean when he was teaching her a tricky movement or when he was yelling at her for accidentally stepping on his toe (excuse _her,_ she thought he meant _his_ left), but otherwise he wasn’t so bad. Then she thinks some more and, actually, he was doing those things pretty much all of the time, so he was pretty much always a dick. 

Clarke and Bellamy hadn’t had much time to speak in the last few days; in between their duties and lessons, the most they’d talked was when they fell asleep on one another before Jasper interrupted and they shuffled off to bed. She wonders if learning from Wenda was as trying for him as learning from Kormak was for her, but she doesn’t really have time to question him right now.

Regardless, she’s thankful. She and Bellamy are about to dance one of the most revered rituals, like, _ever_ in front of all of Lexa’s clan and a whole bunch of scary other clans, and the one thing she is positive about is that she won’t mess up her own steps.

* * *

They take their places in the clearing with all of the festival guests and grounders looking on; they both look determinedly only at each other. It’s been drilled into their heads that the ritual is pretty sacred, though, so straight faces are a must. Clarke glances up at the sky where the moon is just about to cover the sun totally, then looks back at Bellamy. Somehow, keeping a straight face doesn’t seem so difficult when he’s the one staring her in the eyes.

Lexa’s speaking in Trigedasleng while she and Bellamy stand motionless at opposite points of the clear circle of ground. Clarke’s been learning some of the language, so she can make out enough to know that Lexa’s welcoming the visiting grounders of the Alliance to the festival, and delivering the traditional explanation of events. 

There’s something about the sun and the moon, and being held apart for ages upon ages, so that when the sun finally meets the moon, they make the most of their embrace. _To heal the wounds caused by longing_ ––Clarke knows all the Trigedasleng words in that sentence except the last, but she figures it out easily enough. Kormak and Wenda didn’t bother with this explanation during their lessons, and knowing it makes the dance seem a little less like an unpleasant task to Clarke. She wonders what Bellamy thinks; she can see from his face that he’s following along with Lexa’s speech pretty well, too. 

The commander stops speaking and drum beats immediately fill the air. The full eclipse has begun.

Somewhat to Clarke’s surprise, the tribal beat _is_ exactly the same as the one in the song they had practiced to over and over. Thank god, she thinks. 

When twelve beats have passed, one for every month of the year, she and Bellamy begin to move. Their eyes remain locked as they pace around the circle to the rhythm of the song, maintaining their opposition while the distance between them slowly recedes.

When they reach the part of the dance when they’re close enough to nearly touch each other, Clarke exhales a little shakily. She realizes that she didn’t count on what it would be like to maintain eye contact with Bellamy for over seven minutes. It’s not so much that it’s hard to look at _him_ (that might be her favorite part of the ritual, though it’s not like she’s _analyzing_ it or anything). 

But the way he’s looking at _her_ … his eyes are dark and a little hooded and she’s gone all shivery inside, the hairs at the nape of her neck are standing straight up, gooseflesh has erupted _all over_ her body in spite of the summer heat and _oh god_ he just did that little licking thing that he does with his tongue sometimes _oh god._

And then they touch.

Her right side is pressed up against his; their arms intertwine, the black paint of his moons smearing against the golden suns on her arms. Their heads are turned to the right so that they can still look each other in the eyes as they touch. She feels his warm breath brush her face and her lips part a little; she nearly missteps when his eyes drop to her mouth but Kormak’s training has her muscle memory responding in time. 

Forget shivers, her whole body feels like it’s on fire in the best way. The skin pressed against Bellamy’s is hypersensitive to the way his muscles shift as the dance becomes more complicated and they twist and stomp and turn and twirl; the beat quickens and they never let go of each other, never look away and this is _not_ what Clarke was _expecting––_

And then it’s over. 

The pale gold edge of the sun is peeking out from under the moon; eclipse totality has ended and so has the ritual. They perform their last part, backing away from each other until only their fingertips still touch. When even that contact breaks, they turn their backs on each other and look away for the first time in nearly eight minutes. Eight minutes had never seemed so short or so long. 

When they look out at the crowd, grounders erupt in fierce, approving cries; the other Sky People belatedly join in with their own whooping and catcalls. She pretends not to notice more than a couple of her people staring openly at the two of them, though it’s hard to ignore the way Monty is grinning and gesturing wildly at them (Jasper’s mouthing something that looks suspiciously like _I_ told _you so!_ ) while Monroe holds her hands to flushed cheeks, beaming.

She feels Bellamy step up next to her and she risks a glance up at him. He’s smiling one of those little, genuine smiles he only ever seems to give to Octavia and the youngest of children in the camp. And to her. 

“You did good, Princess,” he whispers as the circle of open space around them is breached and grounders and Sky People alike head toward the food tents. Then he reaches out, trails a finger down her arm and god _damnit_ the gooseflesh is back, along with the shivers and a telling heat in her cheeks (she tells herself it’s just a flush from the exercise, honest)––

“But I think I messed up your paint.”

Clarke blinks, clears her throat. “Uh, what?” 

Bellamy lets out a little chuckle.

“Your paint, Clarke,” he repeats, trailing that finger back up the length of her arm to her shoulder. 

She glances down, sees the black swirling with smudged gold, designs eradicated. She shrugs and looks back at him.

“I kind of like it,” she says, and gestures at his own body. “We match now.”

Bellamy checks his skin, then treats her to another slow smile. 

“Yeah,” he says, “We do.”

Then they hear their names being called; it’s Miller and Monty and Jasper. Clarke sees Raven further away, filling a cup full of the moonshine they had brought with them; beyond her Lincoln and Octavia are standing still, smiling at each other, his arms around her waist.

The three crowd around them and press two cups into their hands, one of water which they down immediately, another of moonshine which Clarke sips cautiously. 

“That was seriously cool, guys,” Jasper enthuses, and Miller nods.

“Yeah, when you were like!” (Monty spins his hand around.) “And like!” (He flicks his fingers.) “And then with the eyes!” (He makes explosion noises.) “ _Nice._ ”

Clarke’s not really sure what all that exactly meant, but she smiles and thanks them. She and Bellamy hand back their cup, then Miller gives them a half grin and drags the two boys off, saying something about food.

Left alone again, she looks at Bellamy. 

“Food sound good to you, too?” he asks, and it doesn’t quite feel like they’re back to normal yet, but it’s less difficult to meet his eyes and smile easily.

“Thank god, I’m _starving_ ,” she responds, and lets herself grab his hand. His fingers flex for a moment, then tighten around hers. “Let’s go.” 

* * *

They’re both polishing off skewers of roasted meat and vegetables when they’re approached by two grounders. They’re not anyone Clarke recognizes from the _Trikru_ so she swallows her food as quickly as possible and offers them a neutral smile.

“I am Luna, _heda_ of my Clan,” the woman states; Clarke and Bellamy nod in respect. The woman goes on. “This is my chosen, Mathu.” They are clearly both warriors, though their markings are a dark green rather than blue Clarke has become used to seeing on the _Trikru_. 

Luna eyes them thoughtfully for a moment, then says, “You have done honor to your clan, _heda_ Clarke. You and your chosen performed very skilfully.” 

“Oh,” Clarke says, surprised, “Um, _mochof_.” Bellamy echoes her and the word for thanks brings a slight smile to both of the grounders’ faces. Then Mathu touches Luna’s elbow, and they both nod to Clarke and Bellamy before retreating into the crowd.

“Huh,” Clarke  says.

“Yeah,” Bellamy says. 

“If only all relations with grounders were that easy,” Clarke says. 

Bellamy hums in wordless agreement. They stand in companionable silence for a moment, just watching their people and the grounders eat and drink and dance and talk. Then he says, “What did she mean, chosen?”

Clarke doesn’t respond for a minute. (Damn grounders and their big mouths.)

“Clarke?” His tone has a vague warning in it.

“Well, you know how, _technically_ , women are the grounder leaders?” she says slowly. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, they _technically_ offered the ritual to just me.” Clarke cringes. “But they don’t get that we’re not like that, that you and I are _partners_ even if you call me princess _all the damn time_ and I got to choose who to dance with anyway, so I chose you, and I didn’t think it was that big of a deal––” He catches her hand in his and cuts off her words.

“Partners, huh?” he asks, a strange look in his eyes.

Clarke frowns. “Partners,” she says firmly, “you _know_ I wouldn’t do this, _couldn’t_ do any of this without you. Honestly, Bellamy, wh––” 

And then his lips are on hers and they’re soft but firm and if she thought the tingles she got during the ritual were intense they were _nothing_ compared to what her body is feeling right now, and she’s barely aware of the way she’s carding her fingers through his hair but she notices the way they both gasp for air before diving back in again and the way his hands are spread across the bare skin of her back, spanning almost the entirety of it and pressing her closer and _closer––_

“ _Finally_ ,” they hear, and it shocks them out of the kiss, but when they turn as one to the voice, Octavia is already walking away, towing Lincoln behind her. 

Clarke looks back at Bellamy, wondering what exactly they’ve managed to do to their relationship (whatever their relationship had been) with the last minute (two minutes? Three, four? She lost track). But though he’s slowly pulling his hands away, leaving trails of warmth on her skin, he’s looking at her with warmth in his eyes and a gentle smile on his (red, swollen) lips, and she’s helpless to do anything but grin back. 

They shift so that they’re touching a little less scandalously, hands clasped. Clarke knows that something between them has changed (and she’s pretty sure she likes it––actually, she _knows_ that she likes it, hallelujah and amen) but it’s reassuring that they don’t need to talk about it, that they can stand there together, content, and watch their people thrive.

The music starts up again now that most people have eaten, but it’s different from the tribal beat they danced to as the moon touched the sun. To Clarke’s surprise, it’s Wick’s sound system that is now playing for the festival guests. Thankfully, the various representatives of the Alliance seem more intrigued than appalled by the rather _unique_ lyrics. On a hunch, she glances over her shoulder to where the music is originating. It’s Kormak again, wrestling with the controls while a rather distraught Wick looks on and Raven laughs at him, clutching her sides in her hysterics.

She lets out a laugh of her own, hears Bellamy join in. She looks up at him, beaming.

“Hey,” she says. 

“Hey,” he responds, smiling at her. Their palms are warm against one another.

Bellamy reaches out with his free hand and traces a line from her temple to her chin. 

“You’ve got something there,” he says, and is she crazy or does he sound a little sheepish?

She touches her own hand lightly to her face; pulling it away, she sees black and gold. She looks closer at Bellamy’s face and the crescent moon that had once been perfect is now smeared beyond recognition, little swirls of gold all over his face. 

She reaches up absently to wipe a shimmering spot off of his upper lip, but when she touches his mouth his lips part a little bit and she feels the damp warmth of his breath.

“Oh!” she says, pulling her hand back, and that feeling low in her body is flooding her limbs and face with heat. Instead of teasing her, Bellamy just darts in for another kiss, this one sweet and short and over quickly (too quickly, a part of Clarke complains, but she soothes herself with thinking of _later_ ). 

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he says.

The song changes yet again, and they both start to laugh––the song that they learned the ritual to has apparently become one of Kormak’s favorites, and the volume of the music is increased even more. 

“You want to dance?” she finds herself asking. Bellamy quirks his lips at her. 

“Depends,” he says.

“Depends?” Her brow furrows. “On what?”

“On if you’re asking me to dance like that––” (He points at Jasper and Monty, who are leading a drunken conga line through the crowd.) “Or like _that._ ” (He points at Monroe and Murphy, and _wow_ Clarke has never wanted to see Murphy getting that up-close-and-personal with _anyone,_ ever.)

“Bellamy?” she says, narrowing her eyes.

“Yeah?” he replies, a delighted grin on his lips.

“Shut up and dance with me.”

(Since he “doesn’t take orders from her” and he’s going to “need a better reason,” she grabs him by the shoulders and yanks his mouth down to hers. It takes them a couple more minutes to reorder themselves enough to make their way into the middle of the dancing crowd, but once there they dance until the stars come out.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to [smallerontheoutside](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvisiblequestion/pseuds/smallerontheoutside)!


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